A Spy Like Me

  Forty-six

  Adrenaline shot through my body. “Why?” I groaned. I wanted answers. Why did he pick me up when he could have left me to die? Why did he smile at me so tenderly at times when I was just an assignment?

  While holding me, Malcolm talked into his earpiece, telling someone to meet him. Probably calling in the big guns to get rid of me. This was not how I planned on spending my last minutes on earth. I figured on old age, still living in the ‘burbs, watching TV reruns. No one in the town would have pegged me for death by assassin.

  Dad. I’d never get a chance to explain everything. I’d never get the chance to yell at Mom and hear her say she was sorry. I tried to lift my head but it felt like a dead weight pulling me down. I struggled to get out of Malcolm’s clutches and mumbled empty threats.

  “Shh. Don’t try and talk,” he murmured.

  “Don’t let anyone kill me.”

  He didn’t say anything. My head rolled side to side as he walked. I flashed in and out of awareness. Next I knew, a bridge appeared next to me, and a jolt of pain stabbed my leg. Steps. I smelled the tangy waters of the Seine. He lowered me to the stony ground. My eyes fluttered wider.

  “Don’t try to escape,” he said.

  I tried to call for help, but my voice came out hoarse and raspy. He pulled out a knife, and Dad’s words rolled through me. Fake it until it’s real. Okay. I was brave. I was a fearless warrior who would never give up. Call me, ninja.

  With a quick kick of my good leg, I made sure my jab landed right in Malcolm’s gut. He struggled against the momentum and fell backward. I tried to scramble to my feet, but excruciating pain caused spots to tango in front of me. I shook it off and took a deep breath. I’d crawl away if I had to.

  He grabbed my foot. I screamed and kicked him off. Three seconds later, his arms wrapped around me. The floodgates opened and I beat against him with my fists.

  “I know. I know all about you.” My words came out a sob. “I know Jolie hired you to spy on my family because someone wants him dead, and he thought my family had something to do with it. But he’s just a pastry chef and makes the best croissants, and then I realized that someone must be trying to kill me too or my mom and it must be you but that doesn’t make any sense because I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”

  I took in a ragged breath as my body heaved, tears running, nose sniffling.

  “I wouldn’t hurt you. Now shh. I need to remove the clothing so we can see if the bullet is in your leg.” He laid me down gently. “Don’t move.”

  My eyes widened. Bullet?

  “Yes, you heroically jumped in front of a bullet to save Jolie. Why, I have no idea.” With short, jerky movements he rubbed a cloth over his knife.

  “I was going to shoot him,” I whispered. “But I didn’t.” My leg. The gut-wrenching pain made me want to puke. I didn’t plan on saving Jolie like that, just cause a distraction so the creeps couldn’t get a clear shot. Material ripped as Malcolm’s knife cut through my right pant leg. The leather from the most expensive pair of pants I owned fell to the ground. A shadow fell over us and a familiar voice tickled my ears.

  “Hey, isn’t that why you called me?”

  Peyton. Peyton? Malcolm handed him the knife.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I shouted.

  My life had become a funhouse full of mirrors. Peyton grinned a normal, nice, warming smile. Gone was the swaggering, cocky jerk who had participated in Spy Games.

  “Hey there, darling. Bet you never expected to see me again.” He poised the knife above my leg. “I have to dig around a bit. This might hurt.”

  I pushed back and tried to squirm away.

  “He’s here to help.” Malcolm gripped my arms so I couldn’t move. “Let him. He’s much better at this than me.”

  I held my breath. Pain like a thousand fireworks exploded in my leg.

  “You’re lucky. The bullet wasn’t in too far. This will sting.”

  He dabbed some kind of liquid fire on me that I swear burned a hole through my leg.

  “What the hell?” The pain seared my skin, and I felt like the fiery flames of hell were punishing me for my lies.

  “I’m cleaning it. Hold on. I’m almost done.” Peyton focused on my leg, his hands gentle but confident. He unrolled a bandage and wound it around my leg.

  I flinched. “Why? I don’t understand.”

  My world had gone topsy-turvy. In my world, Peyton had packed and gone back to the States. In my world, Peyton and Malcolm weren’t buddies who called each other in a pinch.

  Peyton smiled at me again but spoke to Malcolm.

  “Man, you can’t stay here long. The police are crawling all over the city.” He slapped Malcolm on the back. “Good luck.” He turned back to me. “Sorry about all that fuss and trouble I caused you. Nothing personal.”

  Warmth hung like a halo around Peyton. He winked and then disappeared up the stairs. He was not the same man from Spy Games. Or he’d had me completely fooled.

  “Guess you want some answers, huh?” The knife still lay at Malcolm’s side.

  “That would be nice.” My leg throbbed but I clenched my teeth because I needed the truth.

  “Peyton is a friend of the family. I called him in to distract and lead you away from Jolie.” He bit his lip. “And to threaten you, so I could save you and earn your trust.”

  His answer clicked, and Peyton’s uncalled-for rage and drama made sense. But how and why Malcolm knew Peyton dropped to the bottom of my list of questions. “I saw you.” My words grated and tension throbbed between us. “If you didn’t shoot me, who did?”

  His face showed no emotion as he finished adding extra tape to my leg. He’d used me. He’d pretended to romance me just to spy on my family. He’d lied to me when he knew where Aimee was the whole time and then he tried to act like the hero in “searching” for her. Lies. All of it.

  But in another time, another year, another life, maybe in a regular high school in the middle of Pennsylvania somewhere, in the midst of cheerleaders and chem labs and Spanish tests, we might’ve been friends. Maybe we would’ve dated and gone to the movies or for ice cream. We would’ve had a normal first kiss. He wouldn’t be a hit man. I wouldn’t be a wannabe-spy still living with her dad, who screws everything up.

  “Answer the question. Who shot at me?”

  “That was my brother. As the mime.”

  He lifted my head and sloshed water down my throat. It streamed along the sides of my face. With the bottom of his shirt, he wiped off any frosting from my skin. Brother? And then it all came together. The mime I’d seen on our date at the Parc des Buttes. And at the Extravaganza.

  I wanted answers, needed answers, but the whole day was crashing down on me. My thoughts swirled together and turned into a blurry haze. “Malcolm?”

  “What?”

  “Who are you?”